


A Fine Christmas

by thesewarmstars



Series: SS/MM Christmas [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesewarmstars/pseuds/thesewarmstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into Minerva McGonagall’s world, Christmas 1995.</p><p>This fic was inspired by three different prompts from <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/mini_fest/profile">Mini Fest</a> – ‘Second War, Order of the Phoenix Secret Santa’, ‘A Christmas Alone (sadfic!?)’, and ‘Candles/candlelight’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I’m not making any money off this story.

Minerva sits in her quarters, huddled under a blanket in the corner of the sofa, cradling a glass of chardonnay. Her legs are tucked under her in a way that makes her knees ache, but she can’t bring herself to move.

The physical discomfort is nothing compared to the weight pressing on her mind. Really, in the face of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s rebirth, nothing else seems important.

No, that isn’t true. But it does make her feel guilty for worrying about anything else, so she does her best not to.

It isn’t working tonight. Tonight, the flicker of candlelight is not enough to soothe her. No, it glints off strands of tinsel and creates dancing shadows in corners and turns her wine orange. It makes her uneasy.

She knows what she would rather be doing, whom she would rather be with, but knowing does nothing to make it so. Knowing simply highlights the lack, makes the absence hurt.

She shifts minutely and her knees protest, reminding her that she is sixty-eight, that she is an old woman. That he does not, cannot look at her that way. She sips her wine and scowls at her traitorous joints.

Looking around at her rooms, her empty rooms, she tells herself again that she did this, she chose this. She has made herself unapproachable, she knows it, with her haughty, superior air and her snappy, sarcastic manner. She doesn’t dislike who she is, but she can see why everyone else might.

Only when she’s halfway into a bottle, like she is now, does she allow herself to reflect on how the very qualities that keep everyone else at arm’s length should, logically speaking, draw him closer. They are two of a kind, him and Minerva.

Well they could be, they would be. If she were a mite more attractive or there weren’t a thirty-year age gap or he weren’t quite so like an injured, frightened animal, if she hadn’t been his teacher once upon a time or they weren’t forced to play rivals, if she only dared to say something… 

But no. There’s Gryffindor courage and then there is stupidity.

She gives a start when the clock begins to chime midnight and she feels the distinctive tingle of house-elf magic. Gifts addressed to her appear near the hearth, just as they have in the first moments of every Christmas she’s spent in these rooms, and after a minute she forces herself to unfold. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she crosses the room.

She surveys the modest pile, searching out familiar handwriting. There is Albus’ present, reindeer dancing across the paper, the bottle-shaped gift from Filius, the fruitcake the Hogwarts Board of Governors traditionally sends each professor, and… oh. Is that…? 

Oh.

She gingerly lifts a box wrapped in plain red paper whose tag reads ‘Minerva McGonagall, from Severus Snape’. Her throat is embarrassingly thick as she lowers herself to sit on the hearth, cradling the box.

She’s never received a Christmas gift from him, any sort of gift, and she allows herself to trace the lines of his handwriting over and over again. She tries not to speculate on the meaning of this gesture. It would be useless, at least until she knows what’s inside.

Suddenly impatient for that knowledge, she rips the paper away and fumbles the lid off the box. Inside is a hairpin, delicate and lovely.

Something is bubbling up from her chest and she presses her lips into a thin line against it. Merlin’s beard, could it be? She wants to sob in relief, but chokes it back. The frantic beating of her heart, her quick, shallow breaths, the tingling in her fingers is quite enough without any embarrassing outbursts. 

She wants to fire-call him, wants to see his face. She wants him to see hers, to see the happiness writ large there. Even if it is simply a friendly gesture, it is more than she ever allowed herself to hope for realistically.

Her hand has nearly reached the jar of Floo powder when she remembers that it’s after midnight, that this is far from an acceptable hour for social calls. Perhaps she could send him a note? Just to say thank you?

Perhaps she should wait a while, let herself calm down, lest she inadvertently compose a sonnet on his eyes. Yes, she’ll open her other presents first.

She reaches for the box from Albus, plucking the little roll of parchment off the top. She wonders what ridiculous thing he’s sent her this year and scans his note.

_Minerva,_

_Happy Christmas! I know you will raise an eyebrow at the enclosed, but I urge you to put it to use. How could it fail to bring a smile to your face?_

_I must thank you again for agreeing to participate in the Order of the Phoenix gift exchange. It’s so important to remember our Christmas cheer in times like these, don’t you think?_

_I shall see you at breakfast!_

_~Albus  
PS: I took the liberty of giving the one who drew your name a pointer or two; I do hope you enjoy your present!_

Her hands tremble then tighten around the parchment involuntarily, crumpling it. She throws it into the fire and drops her head into her hands; she has never been so ashamed. Her fingers fist in her hair, pulling it, but she can’t feel it. She can’t feel anything except the hot constriction in her chest that threatens to overwhelm her.

She has been a fool, a sodding fool. How could she have forgotten Albus’ idiotic Secret Santa idea? She ought to have known! How could she have allowed herself to believe such nonsense, even for a moment? Sodding fool!

Extricating her fingers from her messy hair, she drags a hand over her face, surprised when it comes away moist. How could she have let this affect her so?

Shaking her head at herself, she dries her eyes and chastises herself for her outburst. Everything’s fine, she is fine. 

Nothing has changed, and she’s fine.


End file.
